


a place to rest your head and heart (unpack your bags, you're home)

by jadeddiva



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-08 00:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1919709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeddiva/pseuds/jadeddiva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian helps Emma unpack, well, most of her baggage (despite the fact that the weather outside is frightful and a broken radiator makes the place not-so-delightful).</p>
            </blockquote>





	a place to rest your head and heart (unpack your bags, you're home)

**Author's Note:**

> For #cs bangarang and – HAPPY BIRTHDAY artielu! You gave me this prompt back in February and I am finally writing it.

**a place to rest our heads and hearts  (unpack your bags, you’re home)**

Two days living in her new apartment, and the radiator breaks.

There’s a freaking cold front coming through Maine right now and it’s colder than Emma’s ever felt, so cold that she’s taken to wearing extra layers and sprinting from the apartment to the patrol car to Granny’s, wherever she’s going.  _Of course_ Henry wanted an apartment by the water, _of course_ she went along with it, but with those damn winds off the sea bringing all that moisture with them (or something like that, Killian’s told her but she never paid attention in science and she’s more distracted by the timbre of his voice and the uses for his mouth than listening to him explain anything at the moment).

So, of course, it’s just her luck that her radiator somehow jams itself - okay, she might be to blame for kicking it because she was cold and it wasn’t heating fast enough and she’s stubborn as hell but she’s her mother’s daughter.   Now, the temperature difference between indoors and outdoors is extreme.  Like, Emma’s got her long hair pulled back in one hand and a pack of frozen veggies in the other, pressed against her neck _extreme_.

It doesn’t help that everyone in Storybrooke is having difficulty with their heating, the cold being so intense and unusual, and when the landlord stops by to take a look, he tells her she is one of the lucky ones because she actually has heat.

It doesn’t help that the heat is annoying her, making her irritable and antsy and she’s just really grateful that Henry’s staying with Regina right now (she doesn’t want to think about the reasons behind that decision, is just grateful that he’s not here, in the line of fire).  

She’s also grateful that she’s the only one home, which lets her strip down to her underwear because one more piece of clothing other than her bra and panties and a tank top will tip her over into heatstroke, she knows it.

There are still boxes to unpack, clustered in little mountains all around the apartment from when she had moved them back from New York just the weekend before.  Getting the new apartment was the first thing she did when she returned from that little excursion into the Enchanted Forest, and she’s grateful that Henry did the legwork and picked this one out.   She has to admit, the kid has good taste.  The view of the water is perfect – there’s something about water that just makes her soul feel at ease.   It’s big enough for the two of them without feeling cramped, and most of the furniture from New York works here.

Killian had driven to her with New York in David’s truck, helping her pack boxes (and stealing kisses as they taped up each one).  She had user her magic to move the larger pieces of furniture to the new place but there was still boxes of clothes  (how she acquire this much clothing in a year is _ridiculous_ ) and books to drive back. He also helped keep her awake on the return drive by telling her stories of his time in the Navy and as a pirate, each more amazing than the last.   It was the first time that the two of them were alone for any stretch of time since their little excursion down the time portal, and it felt so natural that Emma was sad to see it end when they finished unloading and he kissed her goodnight.

She shifts the bag of frozen vegetables to the front of her neck, reaches for her glass of water.  This is so very new between them, the feeling of – whatever this is.  She likes how they’re building this fledgling relationship on kisses and touches and trust (she still remembers the brush of his hand across her cheek in the Enchanted Forest as clearly as she remembers the twist of her fingers in his hair when they parted outside of the apartment last night). 

It’s distracting to think about Killian, because the more she thinks about him, the more frustrated she gets because it’s been kisses and touches and trust, but nothing more and she wants _more_.   She wants all of him, as much as she can claim, and she’ll give him all that he asks for – if either of them only _asked._  Part of that is her; what she feels for him makes her feel vulnerable, because with her memories of New York, she can remember how she felt about Walsh (or how she thought she felt) and that dulls in comparison to how she feels about Killian.  No one has ever been there for her as consistently as he’s been, _ever_ , and she knows that he won’t leave regardless of how many times she pushes him away (she’s embarrassed for all the time she pushed him away before, now that she’s fully aware of her feelings, and she tries to make up for it with her kisses). 

What she has with Killian is brimming with potential, and she is so worried that she’s going to ruin it that it frightens her.  So she doesn’t, or at least tries not to,  and feels frustrated in the process.

Emma puts the bag of now-thawed veggies on the counter, leans over the sink to open the window just a bit but then thinks better of it the minute the wind blows in, sending goose bumps over her skin.  Forget that.  She’ll suffer.

As she’s closing the window she notices a black shape moving towards the apartment and the goose bumps spread down her body when she realizes that it’s Killian, on his way here, and that she’s asked him to come and help unpack because any excuse to see him is a good excuse, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.   And she wouldn’t either, but right now all of her clothing is in the laundry because she was drenched in sweat and this is all she has on, which is practically nothing, and Emma feels vulnerable because she might want Killian but she was thinking of better lingerie than this for their first time – seriously, how unsexy is a polka-dot bra and striped panties combo and _did she even shave her legs today?_

She can hear the downstairs door slam, hears his feet on the stairs and he knocks, because even though Emma gave him a key just in case (she trusts him, implicitly, with both her and Henry’s safety and well-being) he’s too much of a gentleman to just use it and barge in and she kind of thinks she loves him for that alone right now.

Emma panics for a moment.  There’s nothing unpacked for her to wear – _why does she have to fail at unpacking? Why is she so easily distracted by Killian?–_ and so she maneuvers herself behind the counter before shouting, “Come in!”

Her thought process, at the moment, is that she will tell him that she’s fine for the time being and she’ll call him in a few hours, but then he enters the apartment and all logical thought leaves her brain.  His cheeks are red from the weather and when he pulls off the hat and scarf that he’s taken to wearing ever since Granny gave it to him and told him to cover up, his hair stands up messy (like bedhead, she thinks, and then curses herself for thinking that because that is distracting her from her plan to chase him away).  He turns towards her, shrugs off his jacket.

“Is it getting warmer in here, Swan?” he asks, hanging his leather coat on the coat rack near the door and approaching the kitchen.

“Possibly – if it makes you uncomfortable then you can just leave,” she says quickly, cringing at the way her words seem to slap him across the face before he recovers, shaking his head.  She hates that he is used to her behavior by now it but she’s so very grateful that it never stops him, even if she hates how that behavior feels so natural even though the last thing she wants to do is push him away, not anymore.

“I distinctly remember you complaining about the sheer quantity of unpacking you needed to do and practically begging me for help,” he points out, emphasizing _begging_ in a way that makes her clench her thighs together because yeah, she remembers that too (the feel of her hands against his chest, mouth near his ear, the delightful shiver that went through him when she asked him to come over, promising to make it worth his while). 

Now, however, it’s a very different matter because she’s not wearing any pants.

“That I did, and I’m not in the mood to unpack,” she insists, voice sounding harsh to her own ears.  Killian frowns, approaches the counter.

“Something’s wrong,” he points out, and Emma mentally curses, shakes her head.  _How does this man know her so well?_

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Killian stops near her, places his hand and hook on the countertop.  “Are you sure, Swan?” he asks in a tone of voice and with a look in his eye that makes her think he’s convinced she’s being held hostage or cursed or something.   She’s half-expecting him to ask her to blink once if she’s fine and blink twice if she’s in danger, but he doesn’t.  Instead, he just looks her in the eye, his brow furrowing with concern, and she can’t help it.

“No pants,” she says quickly.  “I have no pants on right now.” 

Emma expects him to respond with an innuendo, but the washer stops it’s spin cycle in the background and she can hear the water drain – loudly – and all the while he studies her carefully, thoughtfully.  The frown disappears, and there is a moment where she swears that his gaze changes and there’s heat where there was concern a moment ago.  He runs his tongue against his bottom lip before he drops his gaze from hers, and ducks his head.

“Well, Swan, I’ll leave you do that,”  he tells her, taking a step backward and scratching his ear with his hand and Emma feels that panic she had earlier grow as one thought crosses her mind: she doesn’t want him to leave.  Not now, not yet (not ever?). 

But stepping out from behind the counter would expose her in all of her scantily-clad glory.   Now that she’s thought about it, she’s definitely sure she forgot to shave her legs this morning, and the underwear is old and the tank top has a hole in it, but when she watches him turn away, when she sees him head towards the door, all she can think is _no._

“Wait,” she says, taking a step out from behind the counter. “You don’t have to leave.”  She takes another step until she’s standing, exposed, terrified, waiting for him to finally turn away this time.   Her heart pounds in her chest and she can feel a blush starting at her toes when he glances up at her, eyes wary, refusing to leave hers.

“Emma,” Killian says, and she has never heard so much sincerity in her name and her parents are Snow White and Prince freaking Charming.  “I’m sorry I interrupted – “

“I want you to stay,” she repeats, flexing her toes against the hardwood floor.  She reaches out and holds the counter with her right hand to steady herself as his eyes travel across her body, from her face downwards, linger on her breasts, hips, and legs, and she realizes that she _wants_ him to look at her.  She wants him to see her like this, because there’s a small part of her that knows that despite her lack of grooming and in spite of her Target-brand underwear, she looks good.  She holds her chin up and when his eyes meet hers again, and he licks his lips, she knows that he agrees.

“Well,” he says, fingers of his hand reaching for the buckles of his vest, “where would you like to begin unpacking?”  His undoes the buckles quicker than she would have thought for someone with one hand, and slips the vest off.  Now he’s clad in only his shirt and leather pants and she’s never seen him that undressed before – even in the jungles of Neverland he still kept his vest on like armor (she knows something about that herself).  

He sighs.   “It’s bloody awful in this place, Swan,” he tells her before approaching her boxes and it’s like nothing is wrong.  She watches him, mouth slightly agape, uncertain until he slashes through the packing tape with his hook. 

She’s saved by the _buzz_ of the dryer, signaling that at least some of her clothes are done.   Emma gives him one lingering look to make sure that she’s not crazy and he’s still here, unpacking her belongings, before moving towards the closet which hides the washer and dryer.  She switches out laundry and makes sure to grab a pair of pajama pants fresh from the dryer.

They work in companionable silence for some time.  Killian unpacks boxes while Emma puts the contents away – books on their shelves, towels in the hall closet, clothing in drawers.  She doesn’t have a lot but she’s been incredibly inefficient at unpacking because she’s never really set down roots (except for here) and it’s not like she’s any better now.  Her eyes keep glancing over to Killian, noticing that the black shirt is far less form-fitting than she had thought, and that, when he leans over the boxes to cut them open, she can see down his chest – further than the V of the shirt ever cut, and it makes her lick her lips and look away because that dark hair does trail down rather far…

“Never thought you’d have so much stuff,” Killian says with a grunt, grabbing a box and carrying it into Emma’s bedroom.  He places it on the bed, wiping his brow with his hand.  She follows, opening it up and finding it to be filled to the brim with boots and other shoes.

“I didn’t,” Emma admits, “until Regina gave me that life in New York.  And I found there were things I always wanted that I didn’t want to part with, and considering that I could…” she trails off.  She’s never been a packrat, and she’s still not, but the life in New York was a good one for her and Henry (if empty, she realizes, feeling the heat of Killian’s body next to hers, making her burn).

“Thoughtful one, the queen,” Killian says, slipping past her and heading back out towards the living room.  Emma stops in the doorway, surveys the damage.  There may be empty boxes and packing tape everywhere, but it’s starting to look like home.  Even his presence here, with all of her stuff, makes her feel like home, and she likes the way that he anchors her, keeps her here. 

He is her home now, too.

She watches as Killian grabs the bottom of his shirt and wipes his brow, averting her eyes when a small sliver of skin shows right above his belt buckle.  She swallows.

“How about something to drink?” Emma asks, turning towards the kitchen.  “Water or beer?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine, Swan,” Killian responds, and she grabs two beers out of the fridge and opens them on the counter top.  She hands him one and then, feeling bold, tells him, “if you’re feeling hot, you can get rid of that shirt, you know.”

She takes a sip of her beer to hide her nerves, because that was a pretty bold statement to make (but _man_ does she want to see him without a shirt, wants to run her hands over his body, working next to him all morning has been so freaking hard - )

Killian merely raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his beer.  “Are you telling me to remove my shirt, Swan, or are you giving me permission?” he asks, and there it is, that tone that was absent earlier when she was feeling so vulnerable, and she can’t help but smirk at him.  The tone doesn’t quite meet his eyes, however, and there’s something shining in their blue depths that makes her pause.

It’s like looking into a mirror, she thinks, and seeing her own feelings reflected back at her:  he’s just as nervous as she was, earlier, and she tilts her head to the side, considering him.  For all his brash confidence, she’s not at all surprised that he would be intimidated by this moment – they’ve been building up to it, that’s for sure.  She inhales sharply at the thought of what is to follow and then Killian was kind enough to make it easier for her, to not push the issue, so she will do the same, except she knows that he responds better to being pushed than she does (he does so love a challenge).

“I don’t know, Jones,” she teases, “what do you want to do?”  She takes another sip of her beer and keeps her eyes on him.

He smirks at her and puts the beer bottle on the counter before – artfully, skillfully – removing his shirt and folding it carefully before placing it next to his vest over the back of a kitchen stool.    He has a look in his eyes that Emma must have had earlier, because it feels familiar, and once again it’s like he knows her so well.  He wants her to look at him as badly as she wanted him to look at her.

And so she does, eyes traveling south from his face to over his shoulders, following the trail of hair downwards, appreciating the lean muscles of his stomach, the contrast of the pendants he wears against his chest.   There are small scars spread over his chest, and another tattoo on his shoulder – a compass, she realizes, that looks old, older than _Milah_ on his arm – and she clenches her hands.  She wants to touch him, map out the expanse of him and take her time exploring (with her mouth, preferably).

She licks her lips, and he closes the distance between them in three steps.

The softness of his lips clash with the violence of his mouth as he claims her, wild and hot, his tongue moving against hers demanding and greedy.  He tastes like beer and sweat from the furnace that is her apartment, and she drags her teeth along his lower lip as he pulls her closer with his hand and hook, teasing her with the roll of his hips against her own.

“Bloody distracting,” he tells her, mouth leaving hers to suck at the skin below her earlobe.  He angles her neck up and nips at her pulse point, “you are so bloody distracting, Emma.”  His hand drifts to her tank top and his fingers slip underneath the strap, tracing lines that are gentle compared to his kisses and he is slowly driving her insane with need.

She laughs, cards her fingers in his hair and pulls his mouth back towards her, letting him back her against the fridge.  His hand leaves her shoulder and immediately is in her hair, bracing her head from impact, and her knees buckle just a tiny bit at that simple act. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asks between open-mouthed kisses, pulling back to glance at him (his eyes are closed, lips red, he looks wrecked and she is the cause).

“Because you didn’t say anything, love,” he says softly, “I think you forget the dynamics of our relationship. You lead, and I follow.”  The corners of his mouth twitch upward in a smile, and her stomach flip-flops when he looks at her because Emma has never felt _more_ – more beautiful, more loved, more cherished.  There is both heat and affection in his eyes, a combination she has ever seen before with anyone.  He could have said, _you run and I follow_ , because that would have been just as accurate, but he doesn’t, and everything about the way that he has been today makes her want him more.

“Such a gentleman,” she teases, fingers tracing patterns on the nape of his neck. 

“Always.” 

“And what are you doing now?"

Killian smiles, and cocks his head back and to the side.  “Why, assisting you, of course,” he teases. “It seems clear to that you have some need of me, Emma, or else you wouldn’t have invited me over.” 

Emma sighs, because he feels good pressed against her, all hard lines and sharp angles, and because he doesn’t know how right he is because she _does_ have need of him, always and forever, in more ways than one.

He nudges her towards him with the hook, rolls his hips into her once more, and Emma swear she sees stars at the contact.  Every brush of his hand and hook against her flushed skin sends jolts of energy running through her and she feels like she will explode, right now, even as his breath ghosts across her neck, her chest.

“So are you going to _assist_ me?” she asks, hands moving across his back, fingers digging into the muscle, and he groans.  “Or do I need to beg?”

“No, of course not,” Killian responds, capturing her mouth with his and letting his hand drift down to her breast.  He palms it, brushes his thumb across the nipple and she moans into his mouth, clutching him to her.  “But..” he says as he breaks the kiss, trailing off, and when she opens her eyes, he looks plenty pleased with himself, “a gentleman likes to be asked nicely before he ravishes a lady.”

 “You’re so ridiculous,” she tells him, and she lets go so she can pull her tank top over her head, throws it somewhere in the kitchen (she’ll find it later).   Killian’s eyes are blow wide and so blue and as she takes a breath, desire curling inside of her.  She’s done with just kisses and touches.  “Bedroom.”

She doesn’t have to tell him twice: Killian leverages his hook and hand underneath her and picks her up effortlessly, and she’s reminded of another time, long ago and yet not (“Behold – the Rolly Joger”) and it amuses her to no end that this is how he does it with the ladies (or maybe just her – she’s starting to think that it’s always been about her).

He deposits her on the bed and she reaches out to swipe the remaining shoes and belts and purses off, ignoring the loud clatter as they fall to the floor (she doesn’t want to be _that_ neighbor but when Killian leans down over her and presses her back into the mattress, lips finding that place right below her ear that makes her arch off the bed with a whimper, she doesn’t really care).

He starts to drift lower, hand and mouth moving south, and even though she wants him to touch her – even though she wants him to do more – she also needs his mouth on hers, body pressed against her.   She doesn’t want to stop kissing him, at least for right now.  She’ll make time to fit in all the other things she wants to do with him later.

She slides her hand down his chest and cups him through his pants, appreciating how he swears against her skin, then soothes the harshness of his words with his tongue.   Suddenly it’s too hot, there’s too much clothing still on, she needs to feel him so she pushes him up and away.   He frowns, looking worried, but she reaches behind her to unhook her bra, reaches down to remove the rest of her clothing, and he catches on pretty quickly.  His boots and pants _thud_ against the floor, and then there is a metallic _clang_ and she opens her eyes to find Killian hookless, though the brace is still on his arm.  “Maybe some other time,” he says, and before she can even process what he could do some other time, his heated skin is pressed against hers.

Emma is surprised how soft he feels, soft skin over hard muscles, and how the very touch of him makes her dazed as she tangles herself in him, feeling his groan throughout her entire body.  It’s awkward at first, the way they are learning to fit together, but soon he’s holding her, hand trailing up and down and over her ribs. She reaches down reaches for him and he swears, again, harsher this time as her thumb runs up the length of him, brushing over his tip before her fingers are around him, stroking. 

Their next kiss is messy, teeth and tongue as his own hand traces the curve of her hip and then moves inwards, thumb rubbing against her and making her hips roll into him, desperate for more touch, more friction.  She presses down and into him, still trying to stroke him as she moves to find what works for her, the right angle of his fingers, and she is surprised when she realizes how quiet it is – just the ragged breathes that come from her lips as she grinds herself down onto his hand, and the stillness of Killian.  When his thumb brushes against her and she arches up with a moan, his breath catches in his throat, high and tight, and his breathing becomes as rapid as his fingers while he works her, now that he knows what she likes, now that he knows where to touch her.  

Two fingers dip down inside of her.  “So hot,” he tells her, voice rough, “like a bloody inferno, love,” he groans and then he hits it, _right there_ , and she arching her back off the bed, letting release crash over her in waves and making her feel everything from the way that her toes curl into the soft comforter to the brush of the hair on Killian’s leg against her own (when did they become so tangled up in each other?)

She can barely come down before she feels his lips against her breast, tonguing her nipple, sucking it into his mouth, fingers still working her and she’s coming again, this time like a soft sigh, the release of tension leaving her breathless and limp.   He hums against her breast, and she wants to say something about how he should be pleased with himself but she brushes her hair with her free hand instead, keeps her eyes closed and just feels the softness of the strands, the way that his mouth feels against her body.

She wants this now and always, the ease that she feels with him in what should be scary, their first time together, and while they’re not fitting together perfectly (when she crushes him to her, she apologizes, and she grips him so hard that he grunts in pain) but they will, Emma knows that they will in time.

So when the moment comes, and she reaches into the drawer of the bedside table for a condom, grateful at her forethought to put them there last night (forethought or wishful thinking, she wonders).  She pushes him onto his back, straddling his legs, enjoying the way that he trails his hand up and down her thigh, studying her as she rolls it onto him with a smile.

“You ready?” she asks, stroking upwards, teasing him, and he grins, wide and happy.

“Lass, you have no idea how ready I– “he says, last word dissolving in a low moan as she sinks down onto him and hits home and its _good_.   Oh, it’s good as she shifts on top of him, hands on his shoulders, and it’s just the moment of their bodies and the touch of skin against skin until the angle isn’t right and they shift, not easily (not yet) until he’s above her. She raises her hips, helps him slip inside of her and everything is lost in their furious movement, the power of his hips and her answering charge, the way that sweat builds between them with each movement, the way that her world narrows to just the two of them, right here, right now.

When it’s over, and his face is buried against her neck, lips pressing feather-light kisses against her skin, Emma is just…happy. And sated, knowing they’ve moved beyond kisses and touches and trust to this intimacy.  So even if she nudges him to get him to roll off of her before she burns up, and even if Killian cracks the window, letting the frigid winter air dance across their bodies, it’s not awkward because it’s them, and the promise of what will be.

(“I knew you needed me to assist you,” he teases as he shrugs his shirt back on, leans forward to kiss her, and Emma just shakes her head as she pulls him back down into the bed, because she really does need him, right now, and always.)


End file.
